Wild Card

He wondered if that was who she’d called from the lobby. Or, was it a pimp, or a strung-out boyfriend? Those were the types of losers that wasted their time with hookers. He came to a stop light and threw the car into park. Then he made a fist and punched himself in the chest, a few inches above his heart. He groaned loudly.

“Oh, no,” he said.

“What’s wrong? You’re not having a heart attack, are you?”

“I get heartburn bad. I need my pills.”

The light changed, and he pulled down a darkened side street and parked, his tires rubbing the curb. He pointed at the glove compartment. “Would you mind getting my medicine out of there?”

“Sure,” she said.

Sissy popped open the glove compartment and sifted through his junk. She wasn’t paying attention to him, and he reached into the pocket on his door, and removed a flask of chloroform and a piece of folded cloth. In one practiced motion, he doused the cloth and waited for her to turn. That was the important part. Wait for them to turn into you.

Which Sissy did. She was holding the vial of medicine in her hand, and he pressed the cloth to her mouth and saw her eyes go wide. Her head rolled back, and she collapsed into her seat.

“Sleep tight,” he said.

He started to pull out. A police car blew past on Atlantic Avenue, its siren wailing. He froze, terrified. He thought about the phone call she’d made. Had she called the cops? He stuck his head out his window, and listened to the siren fade away. He was being paranoid. Of course she hadn’t called the cops. He leaned over and lifted up one of her eyelids with his thumb.

“Fucking tramp,” he said.

He grabbed her by the hair and shook her head. He felt giddy, like he’d gone into the woods and shot a deer, and was now dragging its carcass back to be gutted and its head proudly displayed on a wall. He noticed her purse lying beside him. Normally, he would have waited until later to check its contents. But something inside of him just had to know if she was carrying the same items as the others.

He dumped the purse onto the seat. A lipstick and some rubbers fell out. And a sheet of paper, folded in half. It looked like a promotional flyer, and out of curiosity he unfolded it.

He found himself staring at a composite of a man that bore a strong resemblance to himself. The flyer called him a serial killer, and said he liked hookers. On the bottom of the flyer was a phone number to call, and a name. Detective Tony Valentine. He couldn’t believe it: He had gone to high school with Tony Valentine, and had hated him. And now Valentine was chasing him.

Another wailing police car blew past on Atlantic, and he felt himself start to panic. Had Sissy called Valentine, and alerted him? He decided he couldn’t risk it. Leaning over, he unfastened Sissy’s seat belt, opened her door, and gave her limp body a shove. She rolled out of the van, and moaned as she hit the gutter.

Her precious purse followed. He started to shut the door, and stared longingly at her lovely body. He’d earned this one, and it hurt to let her go. For a few moments he listened to her tortured breathing, her lungs struggling with the freezing cold air. Perhaps no one would find her until morning, and she’d die of exposure.

He could only hope, and quickly drove away.

Chapter 33

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re causing me?” Banko asked.

Valentine had come to the station house to pick up his messages, and found a note from Banko scotch-taped to his phone. SEE ME IN MY OFFICE, it read.

“What did I do?” Valentine asked.

Banko loosened his neck tie and pulled the knot to one side. Their relationship had been going great recently, and Valentine guessed it was because he spent his days at the casino, and they rarely saw each other. Banko’s eyes did a slow burn on his face.

“You busted Louis Galloway in the casino. The same Louis Galloway that owns Galloway Insurance, and has bankrolled half the politicians’ elections in this state. Your arrest report says you caught Galloway cheating at blackjack. His lawyer claims that all his client did was spill a rum and coke on his cards. Please tell me this isn’t true.”

“Afraid so.”

“For spilling his drink?”

“That’s right. He spilled his drink on three different occasions.”

“And you arrested him.”

“On the third time, yeah.”

Banko shut his eyes like he was about to faint. He was usually not prone to such dramatics.

“He was cheating,” Valentine added.

Banko’s eyes snapped open. “You can prove it?”

“Absolutely. Did Galloway file a beef?”

“He did better. He called Nancy Pulaski, the chairperson of our illustrious Casino Control Commission. They’re old pals. Pulaski has asked me to appear in front of the commission tomorrow morning, and explain what the hell’s going on.”